


Depth of Focus

by amy_vic



Category: Real Person Fiction
Genre: Biting, Bruising, F/M, Photography, Wordcount: 500-1.000
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2011-01-14
Updated: 2011-01-14
Packaged: 2017-10-14 18:35:35
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 809
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/152230
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/amy_vic/pseuds/amy_vic





	Depth of Focus

Mena shows up to set on Tuesday wearing a long-sleeved t-shirt. Nobody says anything, because it is November, even if the temperature in L.A. hasn’t dropped below sixty-five in six months.

Once she’s in the makeup trailer, though, Rebecca notices. Hard not to, since Mena’s been to wardrobe already, and her jeans and t-shirt have been swapped for a skirt and top that expose a lot more skin. “You okay?”

The bruise is an oval twice the size of a quarter, tucked in the crook of her elbow, dark purple with a faint line of green at the edges. Mena shrugs. “Yeah, it’s nothing. Had a blood test yesterday, I think the kid was a med student, didn’t really know what he was doing.”

Rebecca wants to ask if this bruise has anything to do with the bite mark she saw on the inside of Mena’s thigh the other day while she was changing between scenes. She can’t figure out a way that won’t either sound hysterical or just really pervy and invasive, so she makes a joke about the doctor being a vampire instead. Mena laughs.

When Scott calls, “Good morning, ladies,” and walks in with a tray full of Starbucks, Rebecca forgets all about the bruise on Mena’s arm. And if she hears Mena’s delighted gasp when Scott puts a hand on her forearm-thumb pressing squarely on the bruise-and leans in to kiss her cheek, she tells herself that she’s just under-caffeinated and imagining things.

~~~~~

They’re on location fifteen minutes before the sky opens up and rain starts pouring down. The first few minutes are a mad scramble, crew covering up the cameras with heavy plastic, the hair and makeup team passing out umbrellas to try to keep their work from literally rinsing into the gutters, and the director on the phone with the production office, trying to reassure them that he’s going to accomplish something today, and not just waste a few thousand dollars and two full mags of film.

They sit on the edge of the set for a little bit, just in case it’s a freak storm that will clear up shortly. Halfway through their third card game (Mena’s up ten bucks and a pack of gum), a P.A. walks by and comments that the news is calling for the rain to last until sometime late in the afternoon. They double-check with the first A.D. and head for Scott’s trailer; the door is barely locked behind them before Mena’s pressed back against the wall, Scott’s mouth on hers. Mena rakes her nails over Scott’s biceps, and he arches against her hip.

“Makeup’s gonna hate me,” Mena breathes out as Scott works his way down her neck, biting to bring a dark spot up, just above her collarbone. The way he licks at the spot and blows cool air across her skin makes her gasp. Before she met Scott, she never really considered this as something that would turn her on, because no one she’d slept with had ever really done it. Clearly, she needs to re-evaluate a few things. “Fuck, never mind, I don’t care, _god_. Keep going.”

Scott pulls back. He has this way of _looking_ at her (the closest description that fits is “predatory puppy dog”, but even that’s not quite right) that makes Mena shiver and always—always, without fail—gets her wet. It’s made for some really intense takes, especially when they’re getting Mena’s coverage, and Scott’s just out of frame. “On the couch, sweetheart.”

They can’t leave here with ruined clothes (not like the last time Scott was at her house; Mena now owns three wide pieces of pale blue Calvin Klein fabric that used to be a skirt), so Mena unbuttons her shirt and drops it on the table before Scott gets his hands on it. She’s expecting him to get his hands on her instead, so when the touch doesn’t come, she turns and looks up at him. “You planning on watching, or are you gonna come join the fun?”

“No, babe, don’t move, okay?” Scott’s pulling his phone out of his back pocket, tapping a finger on the screen. “Fuck, you’re gorgeous, the light is so perfect on you right now, gimme one minute. Ninety seconds, tops.” Under other circumstances, Mena would be annoyed, maybe even pissed off (because, seriously, she’s ready to go, here) but she’s known Scott long enough to know that he really does have a photographer’s eye, and if he says she’s in good light, she’s in good light. He did her last batch of headshots in forty minutes with an out-of-the box, hundred dollar Kodak, and she still gets comments on them at auditions, eight months later.

So she just smiles, catching her bottom lip between her teeth, and says, “Take your time, but I’m starting without you.”


End file.
